Cognitive Dissonance
by Demented Inu
Summary: When all you love is taken from you, how can you be driven by anything but revenge? SunstreakerBluestreak
1. Jumpstart

This is the first chapter of my Bluestreak-centric story. Pairings will be Sunstreaker/Bluestreak and mentions of Bluestreak/Prowl. Please leave a review if you like it!

Perception.

This is how the Autobots kept their glory amongst the company of humans. All those little worshipping organics… they all looked up with reverence, respect, and hope, as though the Autobots held the key to Earth's survival in their metallic hands.

Kind of ridiculous, when he thought about it, how easily the humans could be manipulated to think that. Bluestreak knew better because he saw what the humans could never be permitted to see. The fights in the rec room, with Sunstreaker tearing manically at Tracks's optics over a rude comment, overcharged and battle-crazed. The target practice in the gun range, when cool-headed Prowl blasted open Decepticon dummies with his pulse cannon. And then the look, that look of paralyzation and petrified anticipation, terror and panic flaring bright in crimson Decepticon optics as they looked at them from the opposite end of a barrel.

Humans never saw Autobot violence. The way they brutally tortured Decepticon captives, the casualties littering a battlefield. This was the proof that the Autobots and the Decepticons were once part of the same race, were of the same origin… that, in reality, the two were frighteningly similar. But these facts were safely tucked away out of sight from human media, and Autobot adoration was continued.

And it amazed him ceaselessly how easily the organics could love them, could fawn over them; how easily they were fooled by appearance.

Perception was all it took, he soon discovered, to trick human and Autobot alike.

Just with a smile, a human-esque laugh, a joke or two… he could fool the rest into believing that he was happy. If it kept them from seeing his darker side, Bluestreak could use the power of perception (so much more powerful than rifles or pulse cannons) to manipulate his closest of friends.

'Nothing happened,' they would think. 'He's fine.'

When, really, they couldn't be further from the truth.

~*~*~*~

[73% of receptors online. Complete recovery in 27… 26… 25 seconds.]

[89% of receptors online. 96%... 98%... 100% of receptors online. Recovery complete.]

Bluestreak's optics flickered as he came back online, a dull blue glow in the darkness. His vision flickered a bit with white and grey static before returning to normal. The clearness of his vision allowed him a decent look at… great, smoldering hunks of metal. That was helpful. His receptors struggled to respond and take in exactly what was happening, still sensitive and slow from being knocked offline… he tried to crane his head to look behind him. The weight crushing him to the ground proved to be an enormous ragged-edged black of fallen building, mostly likely the cause of his unconsciousness. Struggling now, he tried to move it, but it proved to be too heavy for his weakened body.

He hissed an expletive as he let himself adjust to his surroundings. The ruins were denting into his armor; he could feel it, painful and sharp against sensitive circuits. All he could see from his position on the ground was more ruins of charred metal, and a dimly flickering light he recognized immediately as one of the traffic lights, pulsing a dull, lonely orange as it reflected off the metal. Strange that out of everything, that one little light had survived; he knew that not many other things had after the attack, and wasn't sure yet if his own survival was a blessing or a curse. Either way, the light kept on, flicking weakly against what he could see of the reflective surfaces of the ruins of Oberon City.

Ruins… a term used to describe the remains of a building, city, or landscape that had been destroyed or was in a state of disrepair, state of decay… Oberon City had been reduced to this, to a term. Had been leveled here by mechs he had once been close to… by his brothers, in a sense.

New agony fired behind his spark when he thought of that. How many had died? He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that not enough had survived to rebuild the city. How could they? There hadn't been enough soldiers on-watch today, and he was positive that the Decepticons had known that somehow. There had been a spy, a traitor among them, somehow and somewhere… He thought off all the citizens he would never see again, thought of his friends and his neighbors and the ones he practiced shooting with, thought of… thought of…

Inevitably, his mind drifted to Jumpstart again. He would never get to see Jumpstart, and there was no doubt that his friend was dead. Friend… no, they'd been much more than friends. Not quite lovers, and certainly not bond-partners, but they had been intense. Jumpstart was what Bluestreak had always longed to be, in a sense. Strong and straight-edge, with that easygoing smile and soft features that made him sway with dazed reverence. Jumpstart was brilliant, colors vibrant gold and silver in the dark Cybertronian atmosphere, brilliant and bright and cheerful and strong and…

Dead. He had to be.

Grief swelled in his chest and he buried his face into his hands, feeling all of his sadness come rushing forward in a surge of anguish, entire world shattering around him with the loss. What a waste of beauty, and talent, and… No, he couldn't think this way. Not now. First he had to think of a way out of this death trap that had him crushed, had him dizzy with pain.

_There was an attack. Not many Decepticons, just barely enough to take us by surprise; the blaring of warning sirens just like all the drills, then the flood of hundreds of citizens, all crazed with anxiety and fright. We were overwhelmed. _

New energy surged through him as he thought of what he wanted to do to those Decepticons that had done this. The friends that had made it out – there had to be a few, and who knew, maybe Jumpstart was one of them – and how Jumpstart would feel if he knew that Bluestreak was so close to giving up. He thought of all the times he'd spent at home with him, taking care of him, feeling his hands and his smile and the laughter that lit up his faceplate. He couldn't let him down. Now after all they'd been through together. Not after falling so deeply in love.

So he grunted and gripped the ground to brace himself, not quite sure what he was doing, only positive that he needed a way out. When he shifted, the deafening screech of metal on metal filled the silence and he began dragging himself, with difficulty, out from under the ruins, receptors and circuits screaming in protest and in pain. He kept pulling, though, unwilling to give up, straining his rotators until they hurt as well until only the bottoms of his legs were caught under the blocks.

He cursed again, feeling his limbs pulse sorely from strain, and his vision glowing orange told him he was low on Energon. Well, duh, he'd been offline for Primus knew how long… He waited a long moment, catching up with himself, before trying to pull forward again.

Agony fired behind his optics when he attempted to tug himself out. He yelped a bit, then turned to see the problem. The ridges of his calf armor was snagged on a ragged edge of metal, and when he'd tried to pull away, it had tugged on his armor harshly enough to send little warning signals. _Okay, not doing that again. _He bit back yet another curse and tried to focus. He had to get out. There was no other option but freedom right now. He could handle a little pain if it meant his freedom.

He thought of what was to come, of what he was really about to do. A harsh enough pull would rip the armor off of his legs, and he imagined it over and over, the pain and… everything that would come with it. But there was no other way; the blocks were, quite simply, leaving him no wiggle room. He couldn't lift the heavy object off of him, and couldn't back out, and after all options were exhausted, he braced himself to do it.

Bluestreak focused his optics on a single spot on the ground, willed himself not to look away. Anxiety raced through him, coupled with fear that he would lose not only the armor, but it would be bad enough that he would have to sever the entirety of the legs. One… two… three, and he got a tight grip on the ground, and sharply yanked himself forward.

The screeching sound caused his audio receptors to shriek with feedback, and at first, that's all he was aware of. He didn't even know if he'd made it out. And then he heard himself cry out in anguish, vision flaring warning red as the armor was pried away from sensitive circuits. It left them open, neon purple Energon pulsing out of the wounds in deep spurts. He had to force himself to look back at them, choking on shouts of pain – it disgusted him. All of the wires and the cables were burst open and were violently bleeding out into the ground.

He tried to stand, but his legs gave way the second he did, buckling under him, blossoming in agony and slicked with Energon. "Agh—frag it—" He held back another cry and propped himself up on his elbows, then lifted up on his hands to get a look around. His elbows shook with the strain but he ignored the exhaustion. Through the warning light pulsing dark red in his vision, he properly saw the destruction of his city.

Fresh grief stung within him.

The buildings, once tall and glistening and glittering, were now in huge blackened pieces over the ground, like giant tombstones for the lost cause. The once-shining ground and remaining structures were now charred from the blasts of cannons. Bodies of soldiers and citizens alike littered the area like trash, all lifeless and grey, cracked as though aged, their vacant optics staring unseeing at the Cybertronian stars.

He realized with deep sadness that he recognized most of them. He scanned the crowd in search of Jumpstart, panic flaring within him, and though several looked like they could've been him, he couldn't tell; several, all the same model, all colorless and dead. Useless. Identical. It was now more than ever that he hated the Quintesson, hated the Cybertronians' similar frames, their purpose for life before the rebellion. He hoped the five-faced slagger was rotting in the Pits somewhere.

He knew it was hopeless and vain to even move anymore, at this point. Everyone was dead. He was likely one of the only survivors of this attack, and even if he did miraculously manage to make it halfway across the city, he had nowhere to go, no medical experience, and all the Oberon medics were dead. He would bleed to death within a short time anyway.

_Jumpstart… what would Jumpstart do?_

Fresh, hot anger filled his chest. The Decepticons. This was their fault. Hatred and unexplainable rage pulsed through him at the thought that all if took was a few rebels to kill so many, to kill his friends and loved ones. Just a few, a dozen at most. This wasn't right. Weren't they all supposed to be equal? Weren't the Autobots and the Decepticons born of the same origin? How could this have happened?

They all needed to die. That was the only solution. The dichotomy split within his head of good and evil, Autobot and Decepticon. Fundamentally different. One was set forth to prosper and thrive, the other destined to die a terrible and painful death like they had caused his city to feel. There would be no mercy, not anymore. No more captives, or letting them off with a warning. This was certainly war now, and Bluestreak would not allow any more Decepticons to live as long as he was around.

He pulled himself forward now with new determination. His legs were killing him, and the flashing visuals refused to cease, but he forced himself to continue on, not even sure where he was going. Only that he needed to go. That the Decepticons were out there somewhere, waiting, killing more… he needed them to hurt as badly as he did. As badly as Jumpstart had.

The dragging left a trail of Energon behind him in bright glowing violet. He could feel the energy drain from him due to the loss and the lack of a decent recharge. He continued on as far as he could, fingers scrabbling for holds in the ground, until he found his patch blocked by something large and blue that came down only inches from his face.

He froze.

It was a foot, he realized, large and blocky, and his optics trailed up, up, up, over a broad square chest and a thick neck, blues and whites and greys meeting him, up further into the brilliantly red visor over the facemask. Fear stormed inside of him and he didn't move for a long moment. The Decepticon logo, that frightening sharp face, stared down at him from the mech's chest. And those optics – no, that visor – soon followed, looking down into him, unemotional.

The Decepticon cocked his head, visor brightening slightly as though analyzing him. Bluestreak could see his reflection in the crimson there, distorting his appearance, and the other made no move for a long time.

"Operation: Destruction complete," the Decepticon rumbled out with a voice like gravel, impossibly deep and monotone and ringing in his audio receivers unwelcomingly. A voice that caused fear to blossom within him and feel… small. Intimidated and threatened. Made him feel like prey. "New objective: No survivors."

Those words hung between them, that impossible voice echoing in the silence, and the Decepticon lowered his gun with the barrel of it down between Bluestreak's optics. Panic overtook him and he lay there, up on his elbows, beginning to tremble as his system went into full alert.

He stared down at barrel for what seemed like hours, when in reality, only seconds passed, thinking that he was going to die. The brief thought of joining Jumpstart flitted through him, and then that it wouldn't be that big of a deal, just another statistic amongst the rest that hadn't made it. He would just be another body among the rest. Just another ruin, grey and lifeless, head blasted open to reveal all of his darker thoughts.

_I'm going to die._

There was no doubt about it.

So he knelt there and held onto the ground as though to say goodbye, shutting down his visuals so that he wouldn't have to look, and he startled when the sound the blast split the silence.

…Seconds passed. Finally he turned his visuals back on, staring at the form of the Decepticon on the ground, a smoldering hold blasted into his blocky shoulder, the logo on his chest a bit blackened now. The blast hadn't come from the Decepticon weapon… Something like a miracle, if he believed in that kind of thing. His optics scanned the area in disbelief, watching the smoke curl up black and thick from the enemy wound.

Someone else came toward him, and Bluestreak ducked his head, covering it protectively. He shook with fear and anticipation, sure there would be another gun pressed into him soon enough, but then he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. Comfortingly. His panic eased – only slightly, but it was enough to get him to look up. There had been survivors?

Disappointment stung him when he saw that it wasn't Jumpstart. But then hope filled him at the sight of that square-faced Autobot symbol, red and bold on black and silver paint. He looked up and noted the red chevron, much like his own, on the other's helmet. They looked… quite similar, actually. Probably of the same model.

The unknown Autobot smiled down at him with an easy expression, kind and gentle like Jumpstart had been, and he glanced over the bleeding raw spots on Bluestreak's legs. "Are you a citizen here?"

Bluestreak stared up at him in disbelief. He was saved. "Yes… Yes, I'm part of the Autobot security force… Were you…?"

"No," the other said, and his voice was gentle after hearing the Decepticon's. "I am part of the team of Autobots sent here to gather survivors. Designation Prowl. I saw that Soundwave nearly made sure there hadn't been any… I'm grateful to have found you in time." He kept looking at Bluestreak's legs, torn open and ugly from the desperate desire to get free. He couldn't even feel ashamed at them anymore. Only that Primus, he was saved, Prowl had saved him and Soundwave was knocked offline for the moment, and why wasn't Prowl taking him out?

"Your legs need repair," Prowl noted. Bluestreak could only think, 'No, you think so?' and then immediately regretted it because of the genuinely concerned look in those blue, blue optics. "If you come with me, Bluestreak, we can get you a decent medic and a recharge."

Bluestreak just kept staring a long moment. Prowl's chevron gleamed red like Decepticon visors in the starlight, and finally, Blue agreed.

For Kanki Youji


	2. Misunderstandings

_Sometimes Jumpstart told him that he talked too much. But he didn't mind it; no, Bluestreak could tell when the other mech was getting frustrated, and it wasn't often. Jumpstart was an easygoing mech that way. Whenever Blue went on about something insignificant or obscure that had happened between him and Hotwire back on Khalion Delta, well, Jumpstart would just give his smile, tilt his head, bring up an Energon cube, and listen._

_That was a relief, certainly. That he listened. Bluestreak wasn't used to that, and hearing the way the two would laugh together as opposed to him laughing by himself, well, it brought upon an odd sense of happiness. A feeling that he didn't have to listen to what everybody else told him._

_He asked once, even. Brave of him, the others said, to approach Jumpstart that way. Bluestreak didn't think so. After all, they were friends, weren't they? Head of security or no, Jumpstart would never hurt him that way. That kind of betrayal just simply wasn't in him. _

_So he asked once, as they sat together, laughed together, over the drunken pull of Energon, if he minded. "That I talk so much, I mean," Bluestreak had clarified. "I know the others – Hotwire and Reboot and the rest – they can get a little irritated sometimes." He'd laughed. "All the time."_

_And Jumpstart had given him a quizzical look, then leaned forward on his elbows, the colors of him bright and warm and his optics so blue and so deep, and he smiled and said, "I don't mind it, Blue." That's where the nickname had started – Blue. "It makes you happy. And after all I see every day, all the violence and the conspiracy nuts and the bloodshed, then, well… no. Your voice is a nice relief."_

_Bluestreak had been touched, beyond flattered, and he'd smiled and laughed and let Jumpstart hand him another cube. _

_Those words hadn't left him. He'd hear them during recharge, or over training, and every time anyone spoke anymore, he would simply hear Jumpstart telling him that he liked Bluestreak's voice._

_Maybe he was pathetic. He liked to think of it as being in love._

~*~*~*~

The Ark was a lot more intricate than he had originally thought it would be.

The med bay was easy enough to find – after all, that had been the first place he'd seen on this ship due to the ordeal back in Oberon. But when it came to the tour, and Prowl's voice trailed in one audio receptor and out the other, he was unable to memorize the countless rooms.

The recharge bunkers. Teletraan-One. The brig – "I highly doubt you'll ever need to personally become familiar with this, so no worries" – the Energon station, the countless emergency exits, the experiment labs for the science-y types, countless other rooms that he could barely keep up with, let alone commit to memory. It made his head spin, the size of this place.

"And this," Prowl said calmly, as though it were nothing special, "is the rec room."

He stepped toward a door at the end of a long hallway, which slid open with an obedient hiss. Bluestreak was impressed, he had to admit. They hadn't had much in the way of entertainment back in Oberon – a couple of shooting ranges, and some old games that he hadn't played since a Sparkling – but the Ark seemed to be fully stocked and then some. What appeared to be video-audio entertainment was set up in the corner of the room, with a large screen like that of a transmission monitor. Then there was a long table covered in fabric, with lots of little colored balls with numbers on them. More amusement was there too, but he got distracted from it by the sudden crashing noise to his left.

A couple of mechs seemed to have gotten into an argument of some kind. The first, a large-armored and heavily-built warrior with blisteringly red paint, had apparently gotten angry and pushed the second into the table. The table was thrown back with the force of the throw and the second mech (slightly smaller, bright yellow paint vivid in the light, with slender audio fins on either side of his helm) looked up with pure hate in his optics.

There was quite a scuffle as a smaller silver-and-black Autobot broke the two up. Bluestreak noticed that everyone else had fallen back a few paces to avoid the two.

"Who're they?" he asked as the red one was shackled and sent to the brig for punishment.

Prowl shook his head as though in annoyance, turning back to him. "The twins," he said simply, then paused and added, "Try to steer clear of them. Especially Sunstreaker."

Bluestreak realized that Sunstreaker had to be the red one. To attack so randomly like that, just out of the blue… no wonder the others had stepped away from them. "Yeah, he did seem pretty dangerous… I've never known a mech to just go off like that."

Prowl was looking at him quizzically. Then, finally, "Oh! No, no… the red one was Sideswipe. _That's_ Sunstreaker." He motioned toward the yellow one, who was now hissing in pain at the large dent the red twin had left him.

He took another look at him. A few of the Autobots were trying to keep from laughing as Sunstreaker made a comment about his paint job, then winced and reached to his side, where the armor had been pressed into his circuits. He was leaking Energon, and Bluestreak could only wonder what was so bad about him, and the name somehow rang a familiar bell, and he cocked his head.

"What's wrong with Sunstreaker?"

Prowl shifted his optics back to his checklist of tour rooms and only shook his head. "Just… stay away from him, all right?" Distractedly, he checked off 'Recreation Facility'.


End file.
